


The (lack of) Voice of Night Vale

by Rivalshipping_Archive (rivalshipping)



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Canon Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Sickfic, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-16
Updated: 2013-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-23 17:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/928995
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivalshipping/pseuds/Rivalshipping_Archive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From dancefrancerevolution's post on Tumblr. I couldn't resist.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>no but what if progressively cecil’s voice goes hoarse and scratchy from an achy throat but he bravely soldiers on until one day carlos turns on the radio and it’s dana filling in because cecil’s home sick — the poor guy lost his voice and since his voice is his livelihood and his pride and joy you can imagine how miserable he’d be. carlos can imagine it too so he takes a day off science to bring cecil soup and kisses and hold him while the poor guy curls up kittenlike against carlos in mute misery</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	The (lack of) Voice of Night Vale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dancefrancerevolution](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dancefrancerevolution/gifts).



> little things help me with writers block
> 
> thank you all so much for sticking with me

"And now, traffic," Cecil says smoothly. There aren’t any fluctuations on the soundboard to indicate anything other than perfect vocal balance, but behind the mic, he’s holding his throat with a shaking hand. It feels like a thousand razorblades are shredding his vocal chords—and believe him, he knows the feeling. That was a Poetry Week to remember.

"Route 800 is backed up—" he coughs, interrupting himself, and he knows the sound made it on air despite him having turned away. "Sorry about that, Listeners, I think I’m coming down with something. Maybe a bit of Ghost Sickness."

He clears his throat and continues. “Route 800 is backed up all the way to the farmland that John Peters, you know, the farmer, owns.” A frisson of pain runs up Cecil’s throat but he fights the urge to cough again. “I would suggest alternate routes. The Sheriff’s Secret Police recommend taking a shortcut through the desert wastelands. Make sure your navigation systems are fully charged and you have said goodbye to your loved ones.”

He takes off his glasses and rubs his watering eyes. “And what will it be like on—” He hacks into his sleeve, pain-invoked tears escaping down his cheeks, and yet he perseveres. “On those alternate routes? Let’s check The Weather.”

It’s a relief to turn off the mic and switch on the prerecorded weather broadcast instead. Intern Dana comes in bearing tissues and he smiles gratefully at her, patting his eyes dry. “You’re sick, sir. I think you should go home,” she says kindly, sitting on the edge of his mahogany desk.

"Dana, I assure you I’m fine. Nothing a bit of orange milk won’t cure." He shivers and holds his throat again. "I can’t leave the broadcast right in the middle, right?"

She sighs, leveling a stern expression at him. Dana is the longest lasting Intern to date and Cecil supposes it gives her good reason to worry about his well being more than her own. “Don’t come in tomorrow.”

Cecil nods, a wide smile on his face, and turns back to the mic as The Weather ends.

—-

The next morning, Cecil sneaks in the side door of the recording studios, avoiding Station Management’s office and staying low lest any wandering Hooded Figures catch sight of him. His broadcast doesn’t start until nine pm, but the station opens at eight in the morning and he knows if he tries to enter after that there will be about fifty people barring his way to his booth.

He checks both sides of the adjoining hallway before rushing in to his office, closing the door behind him with a soft ‘snick’. He can’t help the relieved exhale that escapes him, although it’s probably a bit too loud.

Cecil locks the door and shoves a wooden chair under the handle to bar entry (except from the messenger children which can find their way into lead-lined bunkers). It won’t be hard to wait it out in here. There’s a mini fridge and everything! It’s kind of cold, but it’s better than the sweltering heat outside. Cecil loosens his tie and clears his throat. _Easy peas-y._

—-

Carlos is worried. The Voice of Night Vale has, of course, lived in this strange town for much longer than he has, so it’s probably best to deffer to his judgement on a lot of things, but not this. Carlos has been taking time out of his Science every day to sit down and listen to Cecil’s broadcast (now that he knows what that voice feels like against his lips it’s hard not to want to hear it as often as he can).

What’s normally smooth and rich as freshly churned butter is hoarse and scratchy, getting worse every day. Carlos hasn’t had a chance to see Cecil for a few weeks now, so all he knows about the man’s well-being is whatever he says about himself on the radio. Carlos isn’t quite sure what “Ghost Sickness” is, but he can hear the capital letters in the way Cecil says it and that’s never good.

Today is exactly a week after when Carlos first noticed Cecil’s voice getting hoarse. Now, hoarse is an understatement.

"I’m sorry, Night Vale, but—" A painful sounding wheeze crackles across Carlos’ radio. "I’m so sorry." There’s a few moments of shuffling, gently murmured words, and then a female voice not quite as smooth as Cecil’s takes over the broadcast, picking right up where he left off in the Financial News.

Carlos turns his radio off, puts on his outdoor lab coat, and leaves his laboratory at a brisk trot.

—-

It’s Hell. Well, not literally, but close. It’s hot and cold and achy and itchy and Cecil just wants it to end. He rocks back and forth on his couch, bundled in the biggest blanket he has, surrounded by wadded tissues and glasses of orange milk. Apparently his silent prayers to his Bloodstone Circle have been answered, because the adjoining wall on the east side of his apartment is no longer dripping blood. He didn’t think he’d be able to handle that while being sick.

Brisk knocks at his door startle him out of his misery and he stands, wobbling, to answer it.

He opens it just a crack (his peep hole is painted over, as per Secret Police request) and peers out. “Hello?” he mouths.

Carlos, perfect beautiful wonderful Carlos, is standing at the other side of the door. “Cecil,” he says, relieved. “I was worried.”

"Worried about me?" Cecil breathes excitedly, but even that irritates his throat and he winces.

"Of course," Carlos says with a small smile. "Can I come in?"

Cecil wants to refuse, wants to tell Carlos that Ghost Sickness can be contagious, but his desire to have the scientist near overrides that. He opens the door wider and ushers Carlos inside, closing the door behind them.

"You shouldn’t have continued to broadcast that long," Carlos says in what isn’t quite a reprimand.

Cecil’s expression is pained. “The Listeners—” he tries to whisper, but Carlos’ long, dark, beautiful fingers press over his lips before he can continue.

"They can wait until you get better. _We_ can wait until you get better," he corrects himself. Cecil’s ashen face lights up and an almost-smile tips the edges of his lips up. "Have you kept hydrated?"

Cecil waves a hand at the half-full glasses of orange milk and nods. Carlos makes a doubtful face but doesn’t voice his concerns (orange milk counts more as a food than a drink to him, but Cecil probably knows best). He drops his fingers and replaces them with his lips, pecking Cecil on the corner of his mouth. Cecil’s eyes widen and he blushes, just the same as he always does.

"Perfect, gentle Carlos," he mumbles, gripping his blanket tighter and shuffling his feet.

Carlos smiles at him and ruffles his hair. “Sit. I’ll get you some water and we can ride this out together.”

Cecil’s face brightens even further, if that was possible, and he hurries to do as asked. Carlos runs the sink water for a moment, now used to the way it runs electric blue for a few moments, then runs clear. He fills a glass almost to the top and comes back to Cecil, who has turned on the television to some kind of cooking competition.

"Drink. All of it." Cecil nods, taking the glass and curling into Carlos’ side. He sips at it through the entire show, and when it’s empty he sets it on the coffee table with the collection of orange milk glasses.

"Thank you, Carlos," he says sweetly, resting his head on the scientist’s shoulder and pulling the blanket over them both.

Carlos doesn’t answer, instead kissing Cecil’s temple and tightening the arm around his waist. When Cecil leans up for a real kiss, Carlos grins and obliges.


End file.
